Her face is chiseled and poised, her lips lush and glistening, such is the existence of beautiful people in a world hell bent on selling it fast and then crushing it out even faster. I think about her sensual body as I run my fingers over her image in a glossy magazine. What would she smell like if she were standing before me. Could I bear the heat of her eyes gazing into mine while she speaks with that perfect pink mouth. Meanwhile in a land far from the posed or polished, the fog outside my window is so thick I’m certain if I were standing in the street I’d not be able to see my own feet. It is my favorite kind of slow morning, the sound of soft rain, heavy mist like white linen curtains draped over the charcoal trees, and an almost imperceptible breeze which stirs the scent of wet soil and cold winter air, blends them together and moves them around you in a ghostly embrace. There are those who would prefer you stay silent and those who tell you to speak up but you won’t do either unless you agree to it. Unless you are ready. With you I was always ready. To speak, to fall quiet. To open, to bend, to give, and to receive. Such was the strength of your hold on me. Your hands upon my neck, your hands upon my hands. What perversions in that dark mind of yours. How creative your play, how vivid the colors and sinister the shadows of your secret desires. Your scorching words a constant trickle of heat which gently, relentlessly, fervently broke through my long frozen ground. With persistence, with intensity, you unraveled me with intention, stroke by elegant stroke, encircling, taking down the crumbling walls of the resistance in my body, in my mind, in my spirit. Resistance. To my own hunger. My own magic. My own pleasure. My own need. You, the crimson fever of sin in my blood. You and I. Beautiful people. Flawed. Broken. Bound.